The Rosas Affair. Donald L. Lucero

he shouted, as he rudely brushed by the portero (gatekeeper) who had opened the door.

      “Yes, your Lordship,” the servant responded meekly. “The fathers are at prayer. The walls are thick, your Lordship, and the cells are beyond the walls of the courtyard so that I did not hear you,” he explained apologetically with smiling scrapes and bows as he ushered the governor into an inner chamber. “Fray Manso will be with you in a moment.”

      “In a moment,” the governor muttered to himself. “Tell him that I’m waiting!” he said emphatically, slapping at his thigh.

      Procurator-General Fray Tomas Manso, who was responsible for purchasing and stockpiling missionary supplies for the northern kingdom, finally appeared in the doorway, his eyes sharp, discerning. Having never experienced the manner in which he had been summoned, the well-respected friar stood there surveying the man who had demanded his presence saying, finally, and with ill-disguised annoyance, “Please come with me.”

      Fray Manso led the governor into the convento’s interior patio and then to a storeroom whose lock he opened with a large key kept on a chain that was hanging around his neck. Flecks of dust floated in the sunlight as he opened the storeroom’s huge oaken doors. Two 200-pound bronze bells partially blocked the entrance. Working their way around the bells, Fray Manso and the governor stepped inside.

      Arrayed alongside one of the storeroom’s inner walls were oil paintings of saints in gilded frames and several huge illuminated choir books which Fray Manso said contained introits and antiphonies for various saints’ days. “These piles over here,” Manso said of the mounds heaped against the opposite wall, “contain forty pairs of sandals; twelve large latches for church doors with their locks, keys, and ring staples; and one-hundred and twenty Sevillian locks with their keys for the cells, or private rooms for my brethren. Those other piles,” he said, pointing to the back wall, “contain replacement parts, the supplies required for rebuilding our wagons, such as, spare axels, extra spokes, extra iron tires, and the tools required for their construction. And there is the equipment required for building a church, axes, adzes, small hand saws, long two-man saws, chisels, augers and planes, as well as the spikes, nails, pins, and tacks required to hold it together.”

      “What’s in these?” Rosas asked, as he rapped on one of the many barrels arrayed about the room.

      “The dry casks contain raisins, almonds, sugar, saffron, pepper, and cinnamon,” responded Fray Manso, “while the wet casks are filled with olive oil, peach and quince preserves, syrup, honey, wine, and vinegar. And these, of course,” he said of the damask vestments hanging from pegs on the wall, “are required by my brothers in their ministries. The colors alone should dazzle the natives,” he said with a satisfied smile.

      They walked about the room with Fray Manso dutifully showing and explaining the need for each object. The governor, largely silent but in deep thought, tested the heft of the metal goods provided, lifting one of the lighter ones above his head and then dropping it onto its pile.

      “And how many wagons will we have?” the governor questioned.

      “We’ll have thirty-two wagons traveling in two groups of sixteen, two of the wagons allocated for your belongings.”

      “I’ll need four wagons in addition to those I have,” the governor said.

      “That’s impossible,” Fray Manso answered abruptly, his patrician face and lined forehead now betraying his anger. “What you see here is the result of eighteen months of work,” said the priest, brushing at the pale fringe of his hair. “We’re the only regularly scheduled freight and mail service to the Northern Kingdom, and we only go every three years. I’m sure that you would not ask that the friars be denied food or clothing merely to accommodate you,” he added in a haughty manner, while kicking at one of the large bells with a sandaled foot. “We can spare no more than two wagons,” he stated. “Perhaps you can purchase some of the things you’ll need from Governor Martinez. He may be happy to leave his possessions there so as to give him more room for the hides, salt, paintings, and pinon nuts he seeks to bring back.”

      “I’ll not have cast-offs in my home,” the governor said, “nor will I wear bits and pieces or hand-me-downs. You must remember that I have a distinguished station to uphold or imperial influence will suffer. Whose wagons are these anyway?” he asked angrily.

      “Well, it’s not all that easy to say,” Manso responded while shaking his head. “Initially, the cost of each wagon and its sixteen mules was paid for by the crown. To be exact, three hundred seventy-four pesos and four tomines. But we’re to assume the upkeep of the wagons and the replacement of mules, so is it a shared responsibility and ownership?” he asked with a shrug. “I don’t know. But as far as I’m concerned, they’re ours. They belong to the Custody.”

      “Well, I don’t really give a shit who they belong to as long as I get my share,” responded the governor in kind. “I must have at least three of your wagons and where you put these other things is of no concern to me. My equipment and gear will be on your carts when we leave,” the governor said as they exited the storeroom.

      Fray Manso placed the padlock in its hasp and did not respond, walking quickly through the patio and then down the hallway with the governor, leading him to the exit.

      3

      Francisco Gomez and the Baggage Train

      The fardage, or baggage train, was composed of beasts and wooden carts, some of which contained the dishes, bedding, tapestries, and other possessions of the governor’s household. It was spread out in the courtyard of the Convento Grande, the Principal House of the Holy Gospel, where Fray Tomas Manso was inspecting it.

      The wagons—heavy, four-wheeled, iron-tired freight wagons drawn by teams of sixteen mules—were each capable of hauling two tons of equipment and merchandise. Inspecting the train with Fray Manso was Captain Francisco Gomez, a heavy-set individual with red hair, beard, and a flowing mustache, all streaked with gray, who, with a detachment of fourteen soldiers, had been sent from New Mexico to escort the governor to his adobe kingdom. A handsome man with light-colored eyes and a wound mark above his right eyebrow, Gomez was a natural leader and confidently assumed his responsibility for the train.

      “He has everything on his carts, even, I suspect, stones for his mangonel,” remarked Fray Manso shaking his head in disgust.

      Before them, were seven wagons bearing the governor’s personal things—his bed furnishings, garments, books and documents—tied up in hide-bound sacks or stored in chests. His kitchen, appointed with numerous pots and pans, was slung beneath one of his wagons. Two additional carts, which the governor had placed behind his personal wagon, contained articles of foodstuff and wine for the lengthy journey. Then came several canvas-topped carts burdened with baskets and chests containing carpets and wall hangings for the governor’s lodging. Twelve pack mules bearing the governor’s table service as well as other household items were also burdened with a heavy oak table and its chairs, and a banquet service of twelve silver dishes and cups. Guards attended by several alferezes (ensigns) bearing the governor’s armor and tack brought up the rear.

      Gomez, a Portuguese soldier formerly in service to the Onates, and one who gave his first allegiance to the king’s man whoever he was, said, “I’m sure that he’ll become a more reasonable traveler as we go along.”

      “You think so?” Fray Manso asked with a smile.

      “We can only hope,” answered the 61-year old Gomez who had seen it all.

      * * *

      With the sun rising over their right shoulders, and with prayers rendered to God for a safe journey, the members of the wagon train set out. They rode aboard freight wagons, and astride saddle mules and horses, their faces set northward toward the mining town of Zacatecas. The whip-cracking muleteers on the train’s 36 heavy, groaning wagons damned their mule teams and their misfortune at drawing this assignment. Assorted retainers, an extra team of 16 mules for each wagon, and meat on the hoof, brought up the rear.

      Blas de Miranda, who, like Francisco